


Think of Me

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even devout Chantry boys should be able to indulge in a little dreaming and a little self-care. (Sebris implied.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think of Me

He’d said his prayers, he’d done his studying, he’d ensured the vigil candles were lit and taken a soft cloth to the statues, he’d obliged some of the sisters in small talk about his new companions and their adventuring. He’d doffed his armour and weapons in exchange for the soft Chantry robes, his muscles grateful for the reprieve.

The moon shone through the high windows, night having progressed quite rapidly in what he’d perceived as a short amount of time.

“You should get some rest, Sebastian,” the Grand Cleric rebuked him, and he knew better than to ask why she hadn’t yet retired to her chambers. Instead, he nodded his agreement, murmured a good-night, and took his leave.

The room is warm when he enters it, the hearthfire already crackling and the curtains drawn. Everything is where he’d originally left it, save for a slip of paper on the rollback desk.

Drifting closer to take up the folded correspondence and break the seal, he recognises the handwriting — tight, small block print, print that makes Sebastian envision long fingers cramped around a quill, knuckles turning white as he painstakingly writes out the message. Seb’s chest tightens at this thought.  
He’d chew at the side of his tongue whilst writing, jaw working, impatiently pushing snow-white hair away from his furrowed forehead. The letters would be slow in coming, but they’d come, and the message would be written, and he’d fleetingly think of asking Hawke to proofread it for any errors — what if the message isn’t clear? what if he misunderstands? — but he sets his jaw and seals it up.

Sebastian reads this short letter, signed with naught but a quick slash of a line signalling the end of the message— you know who this is from, there is no need for flowery formalities — and folds it up carefully when he is finished, hesitating for a moment before bringing it to his face and breathing in.  
Yes — it is there. A cold scent, cold and sharp, something that shouldn’t be a scent at all. He lets the paper drift over his lips before setting it back down where he’d found it and moving towards the bed.

He intends to sleep, and that is indeed his focus as he slips the robes off and leaves them where they fall, sliding under the sheets, sheets that smell of embrium, that heal the mind and soul during slumber.  
He intends to sleep, and closes his eyes, curling on his side, smiling slightly at the scent that still lingers in his nostrils.

But it is too warm, too warm in the core of him, warm and tight and restless. He shifts position, shifts again, stretches out on his back with one knee crooked and arches languorously.  
His groin feels heavy, and he realises belatedly that it is from there the heat is emanating, the insistent heat that demands quelling.

The Maker is always watching, and that may be true, but it doesn’t prevent Sebastian from slipping his hand under the sheet and drifting his fingers over the half-hardness lying heavy on his thigh. His breath hitches at the touch, hips flexing upward, and he sighs.  
There is no point in ignoring it, not if he wants to sleep at all tonight.

“Damn you, Fenris,” he whispers, dipping into the waistband of his smallclothes and taking himself in hand.

He strokes slowly at first, eyes closed and breathing calm, his free hand drifting over his chest with a lazy familiarity. The soft linen still covering him adds another layer of light friction, and he shifts his legs, the sensation spiking momentarily before settling back into a warm pulse of arousal.  
But nothing lasts forever, and moreso when behind his eyelids Sebastian can see his fingers tracing over intricate lyrium lines. His breath hitches as he speeds up, his hand tightening; the fingers on his chest curve and rake over tight nipples, eliciting a quick hiss. In his mind’s eye, the white-haired elf sinks his teeth into the flesh at his throat, grinding hard against Sebastian’s body, his breath cold and quick against Sebastian’s skin.

He turns onto his side and draws his knees up, thick hair falling into his flushed face, his hand working with feverish speed. Fenris’ name escapes his lips in a choked gasp, and once again in his mind’s eye, he sees the elf — hand locking around Sebastian’s neck and squeezing, knee pushing insistently into his groin, mossy eyes blazing.

Sebastian groans, turning his face into the pillow and snapping at it with his teeth, biting it hard as he comes, gripping himself hard and shuddering as the pulses in his cock jet up his spine and branch out.

His breathing eventually slows and the heat eventually fades, his muscles relaxing and a sigh leaving his parted lips. Dimly he thinks he should get up, clean himself off, but he can’t be bothered — not when he can feel the white-haired elf curling up against his back, his hair drifting over Seb’s shoulder blades, the lyrium glow keeping both of them warm as they slide into slumber.


End file.
